It was true, what they said about him.
He was Clay's pitbull.
He was always rearing to go, always had one finger on the trigger, just itching to whip out his gun and shoot the fucker that dared to oppose the Sons of Anarchy.
Unfortunately, nine times out of ten, Clay used Tig's viciousness as nothing more than a tool for threatening and disturbing, unnerving and distilling fear into people's hearts.
And then, right when Tig thought he would die of adrenaline, of the intense feeling coursing through his veins that had his baby blues glinting with madness, Clay would say, "It's alright Tig, put the gun down." And Tig would obey his master, having to walk away from whatever was going on, and let the energy disspell from his body slowly, leaving him feeling burnt out.
Today, he went behind the clubhouse and ripped a smoke out of his pack, lighting it with the ease of someone who'd been doing it for years. In his head he cursed Clay for not letting him deck the newest asshole in town. Finding his rage to be too much to handle, the sergeant at arms turned, growling, and punched the wall angrily, putting all his force into it, then swore as the skin on his knuckles split and started to bleed profusely.
Tig licked up the blood and was just about to go back into the clubhouse for a bandage when he was shoved against the wall, a strong arm at the back of his neck, holding him there.
"There's other ways ta deal with yeh're pent-up frustration, ya know." A very Scottish voice rumbled in his ear. Tig shoved back, causing Chibs to stumble, and turned to face him.
"Fuck off, Chibs. Not in the mood." He made to walk away, only to be grabbed and once again shoved into the wall, only this time, brown eyes met blue ones in a fierce battle for dominance.
"Oh, if I'm not mistaken, yeh're very in the mood." And with that, the Scott nudged open Tig's legs with his boot, and brought the hand that wasn't holding Tig by the throat down below the waistband of his jeans.
Tig tried to struggle and get away but damn, Chibs was good with his hands. And if he closed his eyes, Tig could almost imagine it was some whore or sweetbutt instead of a brother he'd been fighting alongside for years. Still, when he came into Chibs' warm, rough hand moments later, it was the Scott's name he was gasping, no one elses.
And so it continued from there. They didn't speak of it, but whenever Tig was feeling particularily frustrated, Chibs would somehow find him, like a hound sniffing out a scent. When Tig suspiciously asked if he was queer, Chibs only replied, "No, brother, just tryin' ta help ya out."
And so the pitbull learned not to bite if he wanted to be pet.